Page 26 of Perfect Wives
Marc shakes his head – a jerking movement – before continuing his pacing. His thumb scrapes over the metal of the lighter, flicking the orange flame on then off.
‘Marco,’ I plead. ‘Talk to me. What’s going on?’
‘I’ve just been told my neighbour – my friend – has died. What do you think is going on?’
‘I wouldn’t call him a friend. He blocked our planning permission, remember?’
It’s the wrong thing to say. I know it the second Marc’s dark eyes blaze.
A muscle ticks in his jaw as he speaks. ‘Is that all you think about? Our neighbour has been murdered in his home and all you can think about is an extension?’
The venom in his voice stings, and instantly my throat is aching with emotion. Tears threaten behind my eyes. ‘I just…’
I don’t know how to finish the sentence. Jonny was an awful person. Do I care that he’s dead? No. Do I care that a week ago, Beth, Georgie and I talked about how we’d kill him, and in some twisted nightmare reality, he’s now dead? Yes. It’s rattled me. If anyone finds out what we said that night, will they think we had something to do with it?
I watch the grief and worry war in my husband’s eyes and pray he never finds out what I said.
‘Don’t turn on the tears, Tasha.’ He sighs, and the bitter edge to his voice reminds me of his mother and how she talks to me like I’m less than she is. Less deserving of respect or kindness.
I was so excited to meet Marc’s parents that first time, three months into our relationship when he brought me home for dinner. Marc’s mum, like my parents, grew up in another part of the world. I thought my understanding would connect us, but I was wrong. Marc’s dad was welcoming enough, but his mum spoke over me at the table, using Italian so I wouldn’t understand. But I caught the gist. I wasn’t the nice Italian girl she wanted for her son. I’m still not. Eighteen years of marriage. Three beautiful grandchildren. And my Italian mother-in-law still treats me like I’m temporary.
I bite the inside of my lip, fighting back the tears and the hurt and the sudden rush of anger towards Marc that I don’t want to feel. Anger for all the times he didn’t stick up for me to his mum, saying he wouldn’t take sides between the two women he loved but allowing his mum to be openly rude to me. Anger for all the times he’s not here. In the office all week then disappearingon Saturdays to play golf. Anger for all the times it feels like he doesn’t see me.
‘You never liked that Jonny and I were friends,’ he continues, voice rising.
I try not to think of Lanie’s bedroom window above us.
‘Because he was an asshole to every woman on this close,’ I reply. ‘If you knew?—’
Marc shakes his head. ‘You just didn’t get his sense of humour.’
I grit my teeth. Marc is wrong, but fighting is the last thing I want to do. I draw in a long breath, releasing it slowly. ‘Please, Marco. I don’t want to argue. I’m sorry you’re upset, but so am I, and I need you.’
Something hardens in his expression at my plea. ‘And what about what I need? Have you ever stopped to think about that? It’s always about you, Tash.’ He throws a hand in the direction of the house. ‘I come through that front door every day knowing I’m about to have all of your day’s troubles heaped on me along with a crying wife?’
‘I don’t cry every night,’ I say quietly.
He rubs at his temples, squashing the cigarette in his hand. ‘You do, and I hate it. I wish I could make you happy. I wish I could make everything right, and I’m trying. But right now, I’ve just been told my friend is dead. Yes, my friend. I don’t talk about Jonny to you because I know you hate him, but we hung out, we messaged. He was someone I trusted and liked. Someone I confided in.’ Marc’s voice cracks. ‘But instead of offering me support, once again you twist this to being about you.’
His words sting.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I didn’t know you were so close.’
‘Yeah, well, there’s a lot you don’t know—’ He stops then, pinning his lips together as though physically stopping himself from saying more.
Marc rakes a hand over his face before sighing. ‘I’m going to bed. I’m sleeping on the sofa in my study. I need some space.’ He turns to me, and I see a hollowness in his eyes. He opens his mouth. Stops. Starts again. ‘You have no idea how much I’m trying to fix everything. No idea what I’ve done for you.’
He strides into the house without a backward glance, leaving me open-mouthed, hurt cleaving at my chest as I replay our fight. Marc rarely raises his voice. He doesn’t lash out. I don’t recognise this version of my husband. He and Jonny were friends. Good friends. How did I not know? Or did I simply choose not to see it?
The conversation from last week with Jonny replays in my mind.
‘He’s visiting a client,’I’d said.
‘Of course he is.’
Jonny had said it so casually, but his tone…it was like he knew something about Marc’s business trip that I didn’t.
The thought leaves me with an awful sick feeling that I’ve been focused on all the wrong problems. Like I am a sinking ship, trying to scoop the water out with my hands, keep myself afloat a little while longer, instead of trying to find the source of the leak.
